The Warrior

“I have witnessed more treachery in noblewomen than loyalty.”

Ariane studied his face, wondering what had happened to make him so bitter against women of her class. “You are harsh to condemn us all,” she said quietly.

He made a sound much like a grunt. “I have ample reason.” Shaking himself then, he reminded her of her duty. “My loins, demoiselle. Your task is not finished.”

She had hoped he had forgotten. Biting her lip, averting her gaze from his knowing expression, Ariane forced herself to attend to that masculine part of him that was so unlike herself.

Ranulf stiffened when she ran the soap over his swelling loins, suddenly recognizing the danger in his tactics. Not only had the damsel aroused more painful memories of his past, but her innocent ministrations were arousing him physically, a state likely to remain painfully unfulfilled. He was fiercely aware of her nearness . . . her flushed skin, her white teeth catching her pink lower lip, her sweet scent . . . His nostrils flared with primal masculine arousal. He could almost feel her soft woman’s body beneath him. . . .

Bewitched, aye, that was what Ariane had done to him. If he were wise, he would seriously attempt the seduction Payn had counseled. To try and bewitchher in order to win her surrender.

Ranulf’s gaze arrested as he stared at Ariane’s beautiful mouth. If he applied his powers of persuasion, he would wager a year’s tourney winnings she would not respond with the cool indifference and scorn that vexed him so. He would break down those haughty barriers and have her gasping and pleading for his touch. She would be eager enough to please him then. . . .

Ariane had finished her task with inordinate haste, he realized, feeling his loins throb. Schooling himself to patience, he took the soap from her nervous fingers and began making a lather in his own hands.

“Hand me my knife,” he said, softening his tone to a husky murmur. When her eyes widened with apprehension, Ranulf added with a slow smile to reassure her, “I merely mean to shave. I would not wish to chafe your pretty skin.”

He saw her quizzical frown with satisfaction. Let her wonder at his meaning.

When she had fetched his knife, she stood looking down at him uncertainly. Ranulf held her gaze as casually, almost lazily, he soaped his jaw.

“Take down your hair,” he ordered mildly.

“Why?”

“Because it pleases me for you to do so.”

Ariane felt her stubbornness rising, and yet she could not refuse him. Her hair was fashioned in a braided coronet, and it took a few moments to remove the pins and unplait it. When finally she did, a cloud of pale copper tresses whirled around her shoulders and breasts.

Ranulf drew a sharp breath at the sight. The thought of having that bright, silken hair spread over his pillow as he plunged his male sword within her warm sheath made blood rush to swell him to his full, throbbing length.

“And now your clothing, demoiselle.”

“You want me to disrobe?” Her voice was a breathless whisper.

“Yes. It is time to retire.” When she hesitated, he added softly, “Demoiselle, you will not elude your pledge of obedience so easily. Your gown . . . or must I remove it for you?”

With a silent oath of frustration, Ariane turned away to undress, removing her bliaud and chainse and hose, until she wore naught but her shift. The thin linen offered little protection; it had long sleeves and fell below the knees, yet the fine material showed her nipples and the triangle of curls at her womanhood—and did little to shield her from Ranulf’s scrutiny when he ordered her to turn around. His gaze glided slowly over her body, as if measuring her breasts for the way they would fit in his hands, her legs for how they would wrap around his hips.

Blushing and furious, Ariane crossed her arms belligerently over her chest. “Must you ogle me like a prize ewe at market?”

“You are more comely than any ewe. I confess I see much that I like.”

More than liked,Ranulf amended to himself. She was a raving beauty who brought his keenly honed senses primitively alive. Her lissome young body was tall and long of limb, her bones fine and fragile, her lovely features haunting. Add to that breasts that were full and lush, a waist he could span with his hand, and hips made to succor a man, and he wanted her more than he could ever recall wanting a wench. He desired nothing more than to toss her on the bed and seat the burning shaft of him deep, deep inside her. . . .

God’s teeth, but she provided a temptation that threatened his good judgment. He was mad to put himself through this. He had wanted to compel her submission, to seduce her into yielding, but he had forgotten that his games would leave him unsated and sexually frustrated and gnashing his teeth with lust. He had tied his own hands in that regard. He couldn’t touch Ariane without paying the consequences, even if he overcame her resistance.

And yet . . . Why should he deny himself the pleasure of her flesh simply because he could not take her in the accepted fashion? The thought of having her ripe and eager, hot and writhing beneath him, made his loins ache and strengthened his resolve.

Finishing his task of shaving, Ranulf rinsed his face and then rose to his feet. When he had stepped dripping from the tub, he stood waiting with his legs spread, his arms held out.

“The towel, lady,” he said blandly, flashing a careless, very male smile. “I am growing chilled.”

Ariane’s jaw snapped shut at that obvious falsehood. She had woken next to him this morning, and could honestly say she had never known a man with skin so hot as Ranulf’s. It would take a winter’s storm to chill his overheated blood—or reduce his swelling erection. His nude body was clearly aroused, she saw with a fierce blush.

“I see no harm in your growing chilled,” she retorted in a dampening tone. “Mayhap it will cool your lust.”

His smile widened provocatively, but she could tell by the glimmer in his amber eyes he would not relent. He intended her to dry him.